Off the rails.

Nov 30, 2012

I promised you a clothes rail. The clothes rail stays alone.

No stability to hang to. No coiling wires call it home.

No hooks will hold it as it bends where shapes in fabric plan descends. No scraping. No oft browsed dresses fast escaping.

No pattern’s second youth. No sandwiched underdogs will turn to bargains under this rail’s roof. No clumsy, newly learnt construction, joints squealing from mass production. No step back when it’s all complete, checking fact echoes instruction sheet.

No wobble. No stubbed toe moving laughing hobble. No vintage clothing sunlit sale.

No, not for this forgotten rail.

Tagged with: poetry